


The day was long (when Icarus loved Antigone)

by pearypie



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: (whether or not they all make it back alive is another question entirely), Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Ciel & Lizzy & Seb all take a trip to Germany, F/M, Future Fic, Gen, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 17:55:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15296895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: The tale of Icarus is a well-known one, as is the lament of Antigone. The boy who flew too close to the sun and the girl who was destined to die.But in all things vengeful, hellish, and black—the turning of time does not turn back.(Or: the earl and his countess must travel to Germany to solve the mystery of the Vanishing Town.)(They certainly didn't expect to encounter anything beyond the mundane. Certainly not another supernatural.)Ciel & Elizabeth, future fic.





	The day was long (when Icarus loved Antigone)

They are married one misted morning when the whole world is grey. When the shining church bells were little more than callow pieces of bronze, clamoring up a storm of dust and sound as they exit the church, hand in hand. The cheers of the London crowd soften and quickly fade because the earl has never been one for ceremony. He holds his new wife by her fine, delicate wrist and does not care when she tries to blow a kiss to her unhappy brother. He simply tugs her away even as she murmurs _Ciel, please_ under her sweet, panicked breath. 

There is to be a reception at Phantomhive Manor—one Lizzy spent _weeks_ laboring over, planning out every last detail and making sure all of Ciel’s favorite foods would be on display. It’s an act of foolish sentimentality too stupid to overlook so Ciel relents and allows her to host the blasted event, partly to stifle whatever complaints he may receive from her hotheaded brother and partly because it’s the _noble_ and _gallant_ thing to do. Those primitive virtues mean very little to Ciel and even less to his midnight butler, who stands on high with his ruby eyes and dishonest smile, looking like porcelain beneath the pale moonlight. 

Yet even he, the fiend of immaculate perfection, cannot dim the golden display that is Lady Elizabeth. She shines like a white diamond glittering beneath the sun. Her soft pale skin and white wedding gown only serve to remind Ciel how odd his bridal gift must be—a choker of rubies so dark that, without the sun’s rays, could be considered black. It isn’t good for sweet, virginal brides to wear something so vulgar but Elizabeth insists on doing so because _Ciel_ gave it to her and no one dared refuse the wife of the queen’s watchdog—especially not on her wedding day. 

It doesn’t take an hour before Ciel hears the murmurs, the crude laments of the aristocracy who sigh and whine and, one man—drunk on too much fine champagne—declares the countess to be the loveliest bride to marry with her throat cut open. 

 

* * *

 

Their honeymoon is no different from any other day, except Lizzy becomes upset at something trivial and Ciel is flippant and they end up screaming at each other for the first time in _years._

“I don’t understand how we can be together and so far apart at the exact same time—“ 

“What on earth are you going on about? You’re being _childish,_ Elizabeth—“ 

“—You speak for hours and hours on end about _nothing_ at all and you expect me to sit here and—“ 

“I’ve bought you _three trunks_ of dresses, isn’t that enough—?” 

“That man was only trying to be _helpful,_ you didn’t have to _threaten_ him—“ 

“Wipe away those tears, they’re unbecoming on the Wife of the Queen’s Watchdog.” 

And then the argument—whatever haphazard talk they’ve managed to escalate into a battle of words and unwelcome truths—tapers off, whittling away to silence and gentle sunsets. 

Ciel wanders to one corner of the room and tries to feign interest in documents that hold no actual appeal. Elizabeth stands by the windowsill, arranging flowers and thorns that cut into her fingertips. 

And then the apologies come. 

“Elizabeth, I didn’t mean to…it’s only, I find it very difficult to—“ 

“You mustn’t think I meant anything cruel Ciel, I didn’t! I’m…I’m very new at this—“ 

“Sometimes when I look at you I think I have to shield you from this _whole damn world_ —“ 

“I just want you to say a few words that mean _something_ —“ 

They apologize and apologize over matters that carry so little weight that by the end, they have come full circle and understand nothing still. Elizabeth smiles and she is warm, _so warm,_ while the earl’s eyes haunt the soul but he accepts her smile and tries to mimic it himself. They hold hands and he is 17, looking at a woman with flushed cheeks and a sweet, open mouth and somehow, he hates her—just a little bit—because in order to love this heavenly creature he must first drag her to hell. 

And the ugly, tawdry truth of the matter is—he has brought himself to commit unspeakable horrors and has slept with blood still etched in his palms. He has loved many atrocities and listened with relish to the voices of dying men, most who have perished by his hand. 

But of all the monstrous acts he has brought himself to commit, he finds no joy—no solace—in harming the girl he once yearned (still yearns) to protect. She holds his hands in hers and looks at him curiously, as if wondering if he might shatter through sheer contact and he wants this moment to last, to _remain,_ until he too is finally warm. 

 

* * *

 

He hates himself when she kisses him.

It is only when night comes that he allows himself to trace the curves of her body,  memorizing the various dips and swells because even he cannot hate the artistry of her creation—cannot hate the angel’s choir of her voice when she cries out his name over and over. Her sighs are breathy benedictions and he, shamefully, falls prey to carnal desire as easily as any other man. It wounds his ego at how quickly he degenerates but the release he feels when he’s buried inside her, his mouth pressed against her throat, nose inhaling her magnolia scent—

The fine bones of his ivory body appear to have been carved by Rodin, made to fit between her soft thighs and angle gently above her full breasts. There is a part of him that wants to savage her, to see how the ruby droplets might look because _it isn’t fair._ He is nothing but rust and stardust and—he can’t protect her, not when he can hardly comprehend the myth and mystery of a concept too overwhelming to name. 

_Love._

She says it quite a lot, to many people, and he is only one of them. (And there, perhaps, is when he _hates_ her most of all.) 

 

* * *

 

She’s chosen this—to be _his_ bride and it infuriates him when she still tries to turn this mausoleum of broken faith into a home for children too innocent to sin. He fights with her on this and she screams in his face and he wants to strike her, just once, across the mouth so she can _understand_ —

He wants her one of two ways. She can either be the most beautiful little fool and play his doting wife or she can open her eyes and stab him while he sleeps. She’d be doing all the world a brilliant favor and infuriating that blasted demon too. 

And honestly, as far as Ciel’s concerned, he doesn’t need her _help_ (as she so eloquently puts it), doesn’t want her in the way of his investigations even if she’s good with a sword. Even if she can charm those who are charmless. Even if she holds the element of surprise—

There is a fine line that separates his crest from that of the Midfords and it is this: _his_ family, the _Phantomhives,_ are the children of Icarus. They belong to the moon and all her dark secrets. They are inconstant and shifting, and if they fly too close to the sun—

They must be careful, for their wings are made of wax. 

(But then again, Ciel has always been attracted to those that would kill him.) 

 

* * *

 

Supper is when they see each other and no one else. Even the butler melds into the shadows, curiously listening to the soft clang of cutlery.

“I heard you went to visit Charles Grey today.” Ciel sips finely aged Merlot and disguises the grimace that follows. Truly he hates the taste but the alleviation of guilt that comes with intoxication is a wonderful thing. 

“Yes, I did.” His wife holds her cutting knife with a keenness that belies her summer smile. “There are few men mother approves my sparring with and Charles is quite high on that short list.” She laughs a little, his sweet lady of Shallott. “He was terribly anxious today so we wound up carrying our duel outside of the gymnasium, down the staircase, and right into the foyer. Charles nearly speared Lord Dalton straight through when he came by unannounced! The poor man was so faint with horror that Charles, who’s never been particularly aware of the effect he can have, grew rather annoyed and said, ‘well it serves you right! Midford would have blocked with a riposte and we would’ve been spared the melodrama, wouldn’t we?’” Lizzy mimicked in a lofty voice and mischievous smile. “I sometimes wonder how he’s managed this long without incident. Or a lawsuit.” 

“Hn.” Ciel stabs a particularly tender cut of beef. “You’ve pleasantly amused yourself then?”  

“I’m not sure amuse is the right term. Perhaps ‘indecently amazed’ or ‘strangely entertained’ would be better.” She readjusts the napkin to her left. “And you? Were the estates in order?” 

“‘Order’ might be too charitable a term. With the coming winter and our granaries only half full, most of the town won’t have enough wheat to turn into bread. Furthermore, with my latest business trip—“

“Oh, yes indeed.” His wife chimes in with forced casualness. “Remind me, when are you leaving for Germany?” 

“Four days from now. The flood last week was poorly timed but I suppose the indecencies of spring can’t be helped.” 

“Mother Nature is a volatile mistress.” There is a strange glint to Elizabeth’s eyes. “Is there—“

“No.” He is blunt and cold but she is his wife, and she must know her place.

“I want to come with you.” 

He repeats his refusal with emphatic insistence because there are only so many indulgences he can give before his body tires of peace and the full force of his tainted innocence is exposed. When his wife falls silent, Ciel considers the subject closed and prepares to excuse himself, to go to his study and finish the evening report when his wife puts down her knife and looks up at him with an expression he knows all too well. 

“Shall we play for it then?” She smiles prettily.

Ciel raises a brow. “You want to gamble your life away on a game of chess?” 

“No. On a game of cards. Just as we do every Tuesday.” 

 _You stupid, beautiful little fool,_ Ciel wants to sneer. “You think death is a _game,_ Elizabeth?” 

She is silent for half a moment.

And then, “It’s a wicked game.” She declares decisively. “One you play very well.” 

“I am the Queen’s Watchdog—“

“And you are important—so important—to a great many people.” She looks down, as if afraid to face him. “I know that someone you admire once said, ‘Never attempt to win by force what can be won by deception.’ You’ll be traveling to Germany and I don’t know why Ciel but I’m afraid of—“ She swallows. “I won’t be able to give you much but at least let me lend you the element of surprise. I’ve not a mind for numbers and figures but I can defend, Ciel—truly, I can and—“ 

“Elizabeth—“ 

“I was once Lizzy, don’t you remember?” She looks at him. “I was once _Lizzy_ and you trusted me with the world.” 

He digs his palm into the wood until it stings. He hates those memories. 

Truly, he _does._

“Only the pleasant parts.” He allows after the silence becomes nigh unbearable.

“But now you trust me with nothing.” Elizabeth retorts with a hint of anger. “You are content to sit and lie until I capitulate. Until I decide it’s better to have an echo for a husband then no one at all. If you won’t let me allay even the slightest portion of your pain then at least share some with me. I’m strong,” she insists, and he hates how she has softened to starlight in front of him—how the choker of rubies no longer looks like the slit throat of a corpse but instead, the royal gems of a Phantomhive countess. “I’m strong Ciel.” She repeats stubbornly. “And if you’d let me, I’d be willing to carry anything for you.” 

The tightening of his throat comes at a most inopportune time and he finds that there is no moisture in his mouth—as if he’s spent forty days and forty nights wandering the desert, unable to speak or sigh.

“You’ll lose it.” His voice is rusty as guilt and loathing crawl down his skin. If he were a better man, he would refuse. But right now, all he can think of is how _easy_ things would be if she were to accompany him.

He tries again. One last time.

For _her._

“Everything,” he warns, unsure of how to make his voice sound convincing. “Nothing will be beautiful anymore. You’ll hate the ugliness of the world and that will _ruin_ you, Elizabeth.” He tries, and he _is_ trying, because there is only so much he can give before he decides he wants everything and nothing and once he collects her sword for himself—

“I have you Ciel.” Elizabeth interrupts with a dazzling, sun-fire smile—one that burns into the forefront of Ciel’s mind. “And that’s really all I need.” 

 

* * *

 

So they travel there, to a small, obscure German town that is located so far into the foreign woods that there’s no longer a discernable path—just miles and miles of dark pine trees, cloistered and tall, hiding a settlement of villagers and a castle in their midst. 

Sebastian leads the way, dressed in perfect form while his young master follows only a few steps behind, one hand clutched tightly around that of Lady Elizabeth’s. It is an odd sight, the butler admits, seeing his newfound mistress so indecently dressed. For while the trousers, shirt, vest, and cap are borrowed, they do little to disguise her soft curves and womanly hips; the earl’s button-down strains against the countess’s full chest and the collar’s immodest dip reveals a sultry eyeful of exposed skin. Two sabers hang by her side, a dagger is tucked beneath her boot, and a thin, sharp knife is hidden by the hemline of her vest. 

Together, they walk slowly through this forest of inarticulate darkness, carpeted by rustling leaves, crushed berries, and hastily trampled acorns. From a distance, the butler can see the faint glow of the village becoming brighter as the earl murmurs something about infiltration that he acknowledges and reluctantly accepts.

And _oh,_ is he _bored._

The appearance of this entire mission is nothing short of dull. There would be no impromptu executions, sudden kidnappings, or “accidentally” spilled blood. Oh no, with the countess here and her innocence to protect, the earl has insisted that this investigation be so perfectly lawful that all of Scotland Yard would not be able to find fault with it. 

“We’ll make camp here.” The earl commands. His voice a smoky whisper against the backdrop of night. “It’ll be easier to move about if they think us common travelers. No motives, no allegiance.” 

“Ah,” the butler’s smile is more teeth than acquiescence. “Shall we fabricate a story, my lord? A humble inn with no room for the night, two weary travelers of Biblical delight—“ 

“Nonsense.” His master has long grown accustomed to his sacrilegious jibes. “Elizabeth is not pregnant and we don’t have time for your idiocy tonight.” 

Behind him, the countess says nothing. 

_Curious._

 

* * *

 

Burchard Rahmer is the village elder—the sort of man who radiates decency, goodness, and ancient, forlorn wisdom. He has no beard but compensates with white, feathery eyebrows that dominate the whole of his face. His paper skin and black eyes are insignificant, as is his hunched back, dark robes, and sunken features. The only remarkable thing about this man are his eyebrows and Sebastian thinks that a very fine quality. Wise men with beards were a wretched cliché but cynical philosophers of the caliginous sort were terribly exciting, particularly if they seemed unable to hold their tongue—

“And I hope you’re quiet in bed young man, there are women and children present and I’ll not have my village disrupted because of your virile impulses.” He snaps brusquely, completely ignoring how his master’s face has turned six shades of crimson while his Lady Elizabeth looks ready to die on the spot. “And you—“ he turns to the countess “—see to it that your husband only walks away with _one_ pregnant bride. We don’t appreciate polygamy ‘round these parts.” The words, spoken as one might recite a passage of vows, sends both lord and lady to new heights of humiliation and Sebastian, feigning a coughing, does his very best to maintain stoicism.

“We shall endeavor to make our stay as quick and pleasant as possible.” Lady Elizabeth manages at last, cheeks stained with color. “Thank you for your hospitality.” She adds when she sees that her husband will speak no more.

Sebastian gives Burchard Rahmer a formal bow because this man has more than earned the butler’s amity. 

Then, with a brusque, satisfied nod, Burchard Rahmer departs into the night, walking under the light of a thin silver moon.

“My lord, my lady,” Sebastian stands by the doorway. “A nightcap, perhaps?” 

The countess says yes and the earl can’t wait to see Sebastian gone. 

“Leave us.” He commands. 

The butler bows and, like smoke, dissipates into the night.

 

* * *

 

Ciel watches Elizabeth with an air of defiance, as if ready for her to say something ( _anything_ ) disagreeable—if only to fill the silence. Their room, after all, is a small amber-lit cabin of warm oak wood, covered with tapestries made by the hands of grandmothers and mothers, each stitch holding more than a thousand stories that make Ciel feel nothing at all. 

Their bed (if it can even be called a bed) is a wide-set matchbox with a dresser a few feet away and a nightstand on its left side. Across from them the fireside roars and he is silently grateful for the two well-worn sofas near it. A low-rise coffee table of black wood completes the sparse furnishings of their temporary inn. 

“Get some sleep.” He all but commands. “We have an early morning tomorrow.” 

“Yes,” her voice is faint but warm, like the softest flickering of candlelight. “The castle shouldn’t be more than a day’s walk away, right?” 

He gives her a sharp, brisk nod as be begins to set up files, documents, ink, and maps on the only table in the room. 

Elizabeth hesitates.

“Would you like me to stay up with you?” She offers. 

He can smell her almond sweet scent—a bit like sugar cookies—and wishes, not for the first time this evening, that she would have remained back at the manor. Back in England, where she could be warm and safe, surrounded by pretty things. 

“Ciel?” 

He sighs, eyes closing ever so briefly.

Ciel Phantomhive is very rarely a coward but in this moment, his courage is little more than an illusion when he turns to face her, taking in wide, jade eyes that are guileless and so full of love. She is so open and honest with every thought and gesture that he is desperate to know if she even moved and breathed in the same world as him. Surely no angel could love someone like him. 

Surely no angel would _want_ to. 

(Immediately, he sneers at these thoughts—it is so rare to find the Queen’s Watchdog wallowing in self-pity but he can’t help it. Around Lizzy he loses every ounce of icy control and these emotions—these fragile, fire-scarred emotions that are weak and unsure, so underdeveloped and strange—begin to _yearn._ He wants her to hold him until the sun rises, until the sky is cotton candy pink, faded with shades of pale blue, and his lungs are free of hellfire and ash.) 

“Go to sleep Lizzy.” He repeats, eyes fixed on the fire. “I want you at your best tomorrow.” 

She is quick to agree. “Of course. And you—promise you’ll at least pretend to sleep? To close your eyes at least?” 

He says nothing (tries not to lie any more than necessary) and feels her lips brush against his jaw, softer than rainfall at twilight. 

“Goodnight Ciel,” she murmurs before retreating to their shared bed. 

“Stay a while.” The words escape his mouth before he can help himself, before he realizes what he’s done.

All at once Elizabeth’s footsteps still and seconds later, she’s standing in front of him, wearing gold and emerald and that soft, sweet smile—

_And god…her **smile**. _

It is the single most hopeful thing he has ever seen—probably ever _will_ see—and it shatters the futile distance he’s tried to build.

“Stay.” He whispers, blue eyes moving from her smile to her hands, how they’re clasped in front of her—as if in prayer.

 _All she needs,_ he thinks, _is a set of wings._

Yet for all of Lizzy’s eagerness, she hesitates.

"Are you sure?” She looks uncertain—and more than a little awed.

He bites his tongue until copper fills his mouth but Ciel gives her the answer that makes her _glow._

“ _Yes._ ” 

(And his voice, always so cold, is firm and hot and burning with repressed fervor.)

 

* * *

 

That night, the butler finds his earl and mistress together. Asleep, on a faded red couch, with a plain linen blanket tossed over their bodies. His master’s hand is curled loosely around a now forgotten fountain pen. 

His other hand, the demon observes with no little mirth, is tangled in his mistress’s golden hair. 

 

* * *

 

They resume their journey at daybreak, after Sebastian pays the innkeeper and breakfast is eaten on the road. Elizabeth watches as the trees grow thinner, as the path becomes paved with pink granite and ornately trimmed hedges in the shape of seahorses and other mythical creatures. They pass an artfully arranged series of Greek goddesses (she identifies Athena, Artemis, Hera, and, strangely enough, Hestia), pale grey sundials with rose vines coiling around the bottom, and fountains gurgling with clear blue water. The décor, she notes, becomes more and more elaborate until they arrive at a set of black iron gates, twisted and molded to form two letters. 

_V.G._

By now the moon has risen and night—soothing, familiar night—has come again. 

She watches Ciel command Sebastian to complete the impossible and the butler, as always, bows with no hint of doubt. He smiles that strange little half-smile she has grown used to seeing before nimbly heaving his master up in his arms (much to Ciel’s distress) and climbing over the excessively large gate. Elizabeth continues to stand there until Sebastian puts Ciel down and doubles back again, this time to retrieve her. 

“There are graves near the east garden,” Lizzy whispers after she’s been hoisted into Sebastian’s arms. “I could see the moonlight reflecting off the white marble.”

(She also, the butler knows, does not need his help in overcoming the gate’s obstacle.)

“Very observant, Lady Elizabeth.” Sebastian chuckles. “His lordship has also taken note.” 

Elizabeth is aware but that’s not why she mentions it. 

“Ciel won’t investigate them. He’s only here to kill the palatine.” 

Sebastian arches a brow. “Is there something the matter with that?” 

His master has already begun to move towards the mansion looming in the distance, perched high on a hilltop and partially obscured by slate-grey clouds. 

She is still in Sebastian’s arms. 

“The families,” Elizabeth says quietly. “They won’t receive any closure will they?” 

“Do you plan to go door to door and inform them of their children’s fate?” His words are flippant but his tone is quite serious. 

She shakes her head. “No, I…wanted to send them letters. Anonymous letters, just so they _know._ So they might have _some_ relief.” A cool breeze drifts by and she smells apples in the air. “I know what it’s like to hurt, to wonder what’s happened to the person you love best. These families might not be earls or marquises or dukes but they _feel,_ just like we do. They hurt.” 

Sebastian’s crimson eyes glitter at her words, looking like two incomplete sunsets before a knife-sharp smile appears on his lips. “You have a kind heart, my lady.” He says thoughtfully, and with a touch of confusion. “Most officials—and I include my master in that category—have very little care for the aftereffects of their work. Once the target is dead, so is the extent of their involvement. So long as the active threat of mayhem has been abated, they do not care.” The butler pauses. “You are different.” 

“Not very much so,” she denies, glancing towards the moon. “It’s only—I can’t presume to know how Ciel feels or the thoughts of anyone else who captures criminals and thieves and others. All I know is that the people who love these men are desperate for closure _._ Whether alive or dead, everyone wants relief.”  

“Even if that relief is cruel, cold, and far gone?” He adjusts his grip on Lady Elizabeth, neither knowing why he has not set her down. “The palatine is a killer, my lady. A killer and violator of innocents. These deaths were not kind.” 

“But it is still something,” she counters softly, “to know what has happened, no matter how painful the truth, allows the heart to mend.” Elizabeth’s jade green eyes move to mirror Sebastian’s gaze. “We cannot suture wounds if our hands are still shaking.” 

She looks away then, having spoken her piece, but Sebastian is not yet finished. 

Her weight is warm and familiar in his arms and he is unwilling to part with her. 

Not yet, anyway. 

“Do you mean to say, my lady, that wounds—no matter how deep the laceration, how painful the blow—can heal? Truly and completely?” He is not trying to bait her but demons have always had an insatiable appetite for the new and unfamiliar. 

Corrupting his master’s wife may be as close as he’ll come to absconding with an actual angel. 

Before them Ciel is only a few yards away, still trudging up the grassy hill to the palatine’s residence. 

Elizabeth watches her husband for a moment before responding and she makes an effort—a real, genuine effort—to choose her words carefully. “Wounds,” she says at last, “can heal—but they leave scars. Scars that will neither fade nor wither but the bleeding—oh, the bleeding will stop. One day,” her voice is firm, “it will stop.” 

 

* * *

 

The interior of the palatine’s mansion is a great gothic monstrosity of over-stuffed furniture covered in heavy shades of silk, walls of intricately carved mahogany, paintings of boars stalking prey and lions chewing through human bone. The thick Persian carpets blanketing the floor make it easy for footsteps to be smothered and with Sebastian and Lizzy by his side, short work is made of the guards. 

Together, the three creep below the first floor level to where the crimes have been committed underground. They will need documentation and proof for her majesty, Queen Victoria, but after—

 _After,_ the Watchdog could slaughter the whole bloody castle if he really wanted to and international diplomacy would go on as always. 

It helped when your employer’s daughter was empress of the country you were infiltrating. 

To his right, Lizzy has her swords drawn, a carefully blank look on her face. 

A look he has never wanted her to wear because it signified so many things—so many broken, hideous memories that he has tried to keep Elizabeth away from. All he’s wanted—all he’s ever wanted—is to see her free and happy, away from the poison of the Phantomhive name. 

If only she were less stubborn. If only she were not quite so—

“I believe we’re here my lord, my lady.” Sebastian adjusts his grip on the torch, lowering the flame so they could see a metal door carved into the wall of a rocky cavern. 

“This is where he performed the torture?” Ciel’s voice is impassive as he stares down the cold metal, gun in one hand and a kukri blade in the other. “Sebastian.” He commands. “ _Open it._ ”

Lizzy frowns. “Won’t the noise wake the palatine—?” 

“Rest assured my lady, I shall endeavor to keep this as silent as possible.” Sebastian smiles her way and Ciel doesn’t miss the hint of eager anticipation in his butler’s crimson eyes. 

It’s been too long since he’s put on a show. 

“Well,” the earl moves to Elizabeth’s side. “Get on with it.” He gestures for Sebastian to do whatever demon magic he needs to before turning to his wife. “We’ll have to kill him for this,” he says, thinking of the palatine still asleep in his bed, “mercy will not be an option.”

Lizzy acknowledges him with a faint nod and he immediately feels guilt when he sees how pale her face is, how her cheekbones are more prominent because she’s been worrying over _him_ and forgetting to eat; how her golden hair has been hastily tucked under a pageboy cap even though Lizzy loves beautiful lace bows and pearl-studded hairpins—

“That’s alright, Ciel,” she presses a soft kiss to his cheek, eyes alight with warmth. “I don’t feel much like a lady tonight.” 

He is tempted to smile—to take her words at face value—but he knows how jarring a person’s first kill can be and he wants Lizzy to be ready. He wants to prepare her as much as he can because god knows no one prepared him for his. 

“We’ll be taking his _life_ Lizzy. There will be nothing poetic about it. His throat will be cut and I’ll be taking his liver and lungs with me. His body will be eviscerated and before you can even accommodate yourself to the smell of blood, we’ll be gone. There will be no time to think—to wonder _maybe_ or _perhaps._ He will die and nothing else will matter.” He pockets the kukri blade and grasps her hand in his. “ _Do you understand?_ ” 

She threads their fingers together, encasing Ciel’s gloved hand in her familiar warmth as she looks him in the eye. 

Lizzy whispers her promise with the same conviction she said her wedding vows and try as he might, he cannot suppress the small, distant smile on his own lips. 

“ _I do._ ”

 

* * *

 

It doesn’t take much for everything to go wrong.

Ciel realizes this dimly—faintly—as if his head has been stuck underwater.  

There is a strange, indescribable pressure strangling his heart but all he can see, all he can _comprehend,_ is Elizabeth. Her soft cream skin being bruised and burned by rope coils while the bodies of three dead assassins lay cold at her feet. 

“Make your choice, Phantomhive!” The palatine, _kidnapper_ and _rapist_ and _murderer_ —

Ciel’s eyes move to meet the palatine’s: a man whose depravity has come to epitomize a filth more abhorrent than the Black Plague itself.  

The palatine. His German equivalent, _hah!_

He is dressed in robes of crimson, slippers of the same color, and several gold rings decorate the fingers of his thin, bony hands. He is pale skinned but healthy, with hair the color of white-ash and lust pooling in his dark eyes.

Eyes directed, Ciel realizes, at _Elizabeth,_ who is held captive in his arms because she had decided in those few precious moments that his thrice damned life was somehow more valuable than her own.

_“Ciel!” She cried, arms and clothes still splattered with blotches of blood (none of it hers) and the raw, rusting organs she had splayed in the air after slicing open the palatine’s elite guards._

_Ciel barely had time to glance up, still half in shock that the palatine—the fucking child rapist—had willingly engaged in the same curse he suffered._

_Sebastian’s fine wool suit was now torn at the seams, lapels falling off and buttons lost. Silver dinner knives glinted in the pale light as he squared off against another demon with hair the color of dried blood. He identified himself as Cygnus, chief advisor of the palatine himself, and his mouth was cruel when he laughed at the butler’s surprise._

_They were evenly matched—but Cygnus had no need for aesthetics._

“Choose!” The monstrous voice of the palatine echoed, forearm pressed against Elizabeth’s throat. His satin robe stirred the dust around them and Ciel could feel himself _choking,_ unable to breathe because dear god, _this wasn’t supposed to happen._

The weight of guilt and ineptitude reopens old wounds, ripping apart poorly healed flesh. His failure stings like saltwater on still open lesions. In his mind’s eye, Ciel knows Lizzy could have broken free had he, the _boy-earl,_ not come in between the palatine and his guard.

One knife is now implanted just below her ribcage, ruining the soft perfection of her strawberry and cream skin but leaving her golden hair untouched. It still cascades down her bare shoulders like spilled sunlight, effectively hiding the two bullets etched in her back.

He knows one has ricocheted past muscle and bone, has torn into her vital organs.

In the distance, Ciel can hear metal scraping against metal, of hands splitting flesh and clawing at bone. He can feel entire floors and rooms being upturned as Sebastian fights Cygnus, distracting him from attacking his lord and master but in this moment, Ciel has never hated his butler more. 

His own life, in the grand scheme of things, counted for _shit._

“I don’t suppose you’ll reconsider the alternative?” His mind whirls a mile a minute, sight and sound blurring to a dark swamp of grey and black watercolor as he tries to _think,_ tries to do _something,_ where was his wit now? His great eloquence and persuasion because—

He is frozen. Fucking _frozen,_ and his breathing is shallow—like one lung isn’t bloody _working_ and the panic of his ten year old self has come to the surface.

_Lizzy, Lizzy, Lizzy—please, please just **hang on** , just for a few minutes more—_

She is sweet—far too sweet—for something like this. 

Behind him, two more guards appear. One presses the barrel of a gun against his head and Ciel can feel his staccato breathing become harsh and sharp and _frightened_ —but not for himself.

Never himself. 

The cavernous dark has faded to a single point made golden by Lizzy, slashed and violated with rivulets of blood dripping from hastily cut wounds. The palatine’s wiry arms hold her in place—arms she could have snapped like a spring twig had she not been so incapacitated. (The blood—all he can see is the sticky, dark crimson pooling around her torn and bruised body. Her skin is too pale, the roses have gone from her cheeks and her lips are almost white because she’s losing too much blood, _too much_ —)

“I won’t repeat myself again,” the palatine, an animal, beast, and monster far worse than he, taunts from above. “ _Choose._ Your life or that of your whore wife’s.” 

And suddenly fury—unhindered, unadulterated fury—ricochets through Ciel’s body because doesn’t this fucking bastard know? She is Elizabeth Midford _Phantomhive._ She is his _wife_ and she is everything from before the fire.

Ciel’s throat bleeds when he, without caution or plan, lunges forward. His hands—hands that have never labored, that have never held anything heavier than polished gunmetal—reach to tear open the palatine’s throat. To see his mangled body so fragmented and crippled that no amount of science will ever fucking piece him together—

But his body is weak and his arms are frail and the fucking guards behind him yank Ciel down, throwing him onto his knees. He can feel his hands being tied behind his back and—

_No, please god no—_

His eyes burn and he’s suddenly feeling more than he’s ever felt in his _entire fucking life._

He knows what will happen, can see it with horrific clarity in the forefront of his mind. It doesn’t matter if he chooses Lizzy or himself—either way, he’ll still wind up dead and _Lizzy,_ his _wife,_ will be bound and tied and raped no matter what he says. She will be tortured out of spite and lust-filled anger because she carries the burden of his name, of being a _Phantomhive_ by association even after he all but pleaded with her to turn him away, to refuse this death sentence. 

(And despite it all, Ciel cuts his teeth against his tongue and smears the blood on the inside corner of his mouth, trying to suppress the _relief_ and _gratitude_ he feels in knowing that _despite it all,_ despite everything _,_ Lizzy still chose _him._ ) 

But in that split second between anger and desperation, he sees her emerald eyes glitter. Her rosebud mouth purses, chin tilting up.

She is the daughter of Frances Phantomhive and she knows what must be done before he does. 

“ _Lizzy, don’t—!_ ” The scream is clawed from his throat, ripping apart vocal chords and bruising his flesh as he dives forward but it’s _too fucking late._

Lizzy has twisted her body away from the palatine, using the last of her strength to drag a serrated, saw-edged knife into the palatine’s stomach so that intestines and blood spill forth indiscriminately. In a matter of seconds the monster falls _,_ mewling and crying and howling with pain as he crumples onto the floor right as a shadow mercenary cuts into Lizzy with a sword that should have killed her.

Hellfire reigns. 

Ciel forgets about the gun pressing against the back of his head, forgets about death and vengeance and the whole silly world. Instead he wrenches himself away from the guards (working men who have never seen this much blood, this much _hatred_ ) who are frozen. One of them opens his mouth and points, gun hanging limply at his side because _fucking hell,_ here is the Earl of Phantomhive, the _Queen’s Watchdog,_ whose pale skin has been lacerated with grime and blood, and he is _crawling_ towards his fallen wife as the serpent did Eve. His hands are still tied behind his back as he grapples with the dirt paved earth. Screams and battle cries echo around them as the whole cavern shakes and the demons finish their dance.

Ciel hears nothing save his own voice—a voice like that of a wounded animal howling Lizzy’s name but she can’t fucking _answer._

She is lying on her back, whiter than porcelain, and Ciel doesn’t know what to say or do when suddenly, his hands are freed and he can hear the butler (whose hair is matted in blood and sweat, who is weak from fighting a battle in his true form) murmurs something in his ear when Ciel falls to his knees, lunging towards Lizzy, _his_ Lizzy. 

He scrambles to her like a half-starved waif, desperate and shameless when he finally reaches her. With trembling hands he gently cups her face.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers with a mouth meant for kissing. “Ciel, I didn’t—“ 

“Don’t apologize, please don’t apologize.” He is dumb, deaf, and blind—unable to think, hear, or see anything except her. 

_She can’t apologize, she isn’t meant for apologies._

_She’s meant for laughter and poems and words that mean more than my entire fucking existence—_

But he can’t say this. Doesn’t know _how_ to say this and instead stumbles through half-fragmented sentences of _we’ll get you home_ and _Sebastian will heal you, I know he will_ and _you’re strong, you’re **mine,** please don’t leave me, **please** — _

His entire body is numb and it takes him a while to notice something cold being pressed against his right leg. Something cold and familiar and when he looks down, sees the polished bronze of his 1890 Remington Model handgun. 

Behind him, the butler sighs. “Mercy, young master,” the demon chides gently. “It is all you can do.”

His mind falls blank.

She can’t die, not _now,_ not _ever_ —

Lizzy’s eyes are still on him when one hand comes to press against her stomach, stymieing blood he cannot see when the metal presses against him again. 

This time, in the palm of his hand. 

“Give her mercy.” The butler repeats. 

He says nothing but holds his wife closer, moving Lizzy so the upper half of her body is lying in his lap and he can see her eyes—those startling emerald eyes. Still childish and young but faded—distant, like a lily-pad under water. 

 _Lizzy._ He bends down, lips against her cheek. _This wasn’t supposed to happen._

She laughs— _laughs_ —and it is the most beautiful lullaby in the world.

It becomes the center of his world, a world where only they exist. 

“I love you.” She sighs looking up at him with abject adoration. 

He can’t bear the sight of it—does not know how to comprehend it.

“I love you, Ciel.”

 _I know,_ he thinks, _I know._

His mouth comes up to press against her lips, to taste cotton candy and daydreams while he holds her close. 

“Would you like tulips, love?” He asks softly against her mouth. “Tulips and orchids that are the color of May sunrises?” 

“Oh yes,” she smiles, one hand coming to press against his chest. “But pink tulips and white orchids. And all the most beautiful things in the world.” 

Her warmth spreads through him, seeping into his skin. “All the most beautiful things,” he agrees, “with sunshine and skies of blue.” 

“No wreaths.” She adds firmly. “No wreaths, I’ve never liked wreaths.” 

Around them the torchlight fades, burning the wood to black ash. 

Lizzy’s hair—once the color of sun fire—suddenly reminds him of the moon. The lightest color of the harvest moon. 

“No wreathes,” Ciel presses a kiss to her temple, lips tingling when he meets cold skin. “Will you be happy, love? Will you promise me to be happy?” 

“Yes, I—“ 

“And not to look for me,” he interrupts, “when you’re in heaven, don’t look for me.” (Because he is desperate, so desperate, to let her know—) “ _I’ll love you,_ ” he murmurs, peering into her waterlily eyes. “ _You silly, beautiful girl. I love you._ ” 

Her final beatific sigh is as soft and tranquil as nursery tea and her fingers relax, gently unfurling from the soft rise of her bloodied womb.  

Ciel presses his forehead against hers, eyes closing as he whispers a prayer he thought he’d long forgotten.

And when he comes away—when he feels her heartbeat slow—one hand coming to trace her pale, cool cheek does Ciel realize, for the first time in a long time, that he is warm.

**Author's Note:**

> Announcement to all: this lil fic is part of the Lizzy Fanzine that is being edited and put together by the incredible dipothebookworm ♡ 
> 
> Here's the link https : / / lizzyfanzine . tumblr . com / (just copy and paste into the search bar and delte the spaces) 
> 
> The fanzine should be up within the next few months :) 
> 
> x,  
> Peary
> 
> (As always, feedback appreciated ♡)


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